


Probability

by brooklinegirl



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-27
Updated: 2004-07-27
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/pseuds/brooklinegirl
Summary: "Fraser, there a reason why you jump in front of moving cars that you maybe want to tell me about?"1,274 words for mei_x who wanted: F/K - "You're crazy if you think I'm touching that!"ETA: Since she almost got *fired* for it, I could, of course, give Estrella the credit she deserves for doing a kick-ass beta job for me.





	

He's gotten the shit knocked out of him again, and he's pretending that it's okay, it's fine, it doesn’t hurt. Of course it doesn't hurt. Right. I almost forgot - he's fucking Super-Mountie, thinks he can leap tall buildings in a single bound. Thinks he can do anything, any damn thing, up to and including jumping in front of a car to get it to stop. Thinks he can do it all without help, can do it all without thinking it through, can do it all and hope it turns out all right in the end. And if it doesn't, well, too bad, better luck next time.

Fraser does stuff like this and people think he's crazy, think he's stupid, that he believes he can't get hurt or killed or anything. That's not it. I know that's not it. I know he's fucked up, fucked up because he's been fucked over so many times. I get that, I get that big time. He doesn't think he's beyond all that, he just thinks that when it comes right down to it, what happens to him doesn’t really matter.

And that makes me angrier than anything I can think of. Makes me want to hit him, or shake him, or something, because for somebody who's supposed to be so damn smart, who talks to me about grammar and logic and thoroughness all the damn time, he can be really stupid.

"So fucking stupid," I mutter under my breath as I push him to sit on the couch. "Stay the fuck there," I order, pointing my finger at him. He nods tiredly, and I head to the bathroom. I come back with a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, some antibiotic ointment. All this stuff I keep around because, look, okay, in our line of work, we get hurt, we get messed up. Me, though, I don't do dangerous stuff unless I have to. This guy throws himself in front of cars for fun.

I drop the stuff on the coffee table. Wonder of wonders, he stayed put like I told him; he's got his head leaning against the back of the couch and is looking up at the ceiling. I half-kneel on the couch next to him, trying to get a good look at the gash on his cheekbone, the bruise on his temple, and the spot where he got bashed in the mouth. I concentrate on just fixing him up, because I can't even really look at him right now, not when I'm this mad.

I nudge his head a little to the side, and he shuts his eyes as I clean him up with the washcloth, get the dirt off, work on cleaning that cut that he probably should have had looked at, but of course he refused to go to emergency care. Something, which, okay, I can't really get angry with him about, because I probably would've said no, too. He flinches a little as I clean his cut, but he doesn't make a sound.

I finish up, dropping the washcloth back in the bowl of water, and reach for the antibiotic. Fraser clears his throat. "I have, in my belt, ointment that will serve to…"

"That smelly mucus stuff you put on me that time? You're crazy if you think I'm touching that." My tone sounds sharp, sounds kinda like how Stella used to talk to me when I'd get hurt, and I grit my teeth, shut the fuck up, and just finish up putting the (normal, American, not-from-a-pregnant-anything ointment) on him.

"You're all set."

"Thank you," he says stiffly, sitting up and running his hands through his hair, like he's trying to straighten it, but really just getting it messier. He reaches for his strappy-belt-thing where it lies all undone on the coffee table. "I'll just…"

"Fraser, there a reason why you jump in front of moving cars that you maybe want to tell me about?" I meant to keep quiet about that. His life. His decisions. Why the fuck should it matter to me, he's just my partner, for Christ's sake, not like I'm important or anything, not like he doesn't know, doesn't know really fucking well that I'm going to end up jumping right the fuck after him nine times out of ten. You'd think he could at least care about my scrawny hide, even if he doesn't care about his own.

He looks at me steadily. "Because it's my job."

"No, actually, you know what, it's not. It's not your job to get killed for no damn reason..."

"It wasn't for no reason, and I did not get killed," he says stiffly. He lets his head fall back against the couch again.

I make a noise of sheer frustration and drop my head back against the couch as well. We sit there, blinking up at the ceiling and not saying anything. This is your life, Ray Kowalski. This is it. You're going to spend the rest of your life chasing after this guy, trying to keep him from killing himself, mostly because you want a chance to kill him first, for being so fucking stupid. For being so fucking blind, and for not figuring out that for once in his sad fucking life, it's not just about him.

"Ray," he says, but I shut my eyes and pretend not to hear.

There's rustling beside me, and then, "Ray," he says again.

"Shut up, Fraser," I say. Man, I sound tired, even to my own ears. "I don't want to hear it. You want to get killed, that's your business." I keep my eyes closed, but make a vague waving motion in the air. "Go for it."

There's a moment of quiet, then he clears his throat and says, "Ray, the odds are highly against..."

"Fraser, I don't care about the goddamn odds." I open my eyes and tilt my head to look at him. And you know what? I don't. I fucking don't. I'm tired of dicking around like this, tired of falling for people who don't fall back. He jumps in front of cars because he doesn't care whether he lives or dies. So how can this possibly matter?

I open my eyes and sit forward. "Fraser, let me see your face."

He looks sort of startled. "It's fine, Ray, you just finished cleaning..."

"Shut up, and let me see your face." He blinks, and obeys, turning towards me. I touch his chin, tilting his head a little, and let my other hand lightly trace the bruise that's spreading around his eye. He doesn't even wince, just sits there and lets me. I look at the gash on his cheekbone and run my fingers under it, gently, not touching it, just sort of tracing the length of it. He holds himself very still, breathing evenly, not looking at me. I look at his mouth, where he whacked it falling off the car, and then I close the space between us and I kiss his stupid fat lip, hard enough to hurt.

When I let him go, he raises his hand to his face, almost, but not quite, touching his puffy lip. He doesn't look shocked. Maybe he's too tired for shocked.

"Fraser," I say, and my voice sounds funny. Kinda rough. "Don't jump in front of cars anymore, okay?"

Licking his lip, he looks at me, seeming to actually see me for the first time tonight, and I add, "Unless you absolutely have to."

He nods, and smiles this real slow smile that makes me think that maybe I beat the odds after all. "All right, Ray."


End file.
